


into the fire we go again

by ceserabeau



Series: White Collar AU [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s so much Derek doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where Stiles hides all his stolen art, the paintings and sculptures and manuscripts. He doesn’t know who Stiles’ second partner is. He doesn’t know where Stiles came from in the first place.<br/>He doesn’t know if Stilinski is even his real name. </p><p>White Collar AU, part deux.</p>
            </blockquote>





	into the fire we go again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Kids_ by Mikky Ekko 
> 
> This is Stiles' [tattoo](http://www.tattoostime.com/images/59/salvador-dali-elephant-tattoo.jpg) as I see it.

Derek knows a lot of things about Stiles Stilinski.

He knows Stiles has expensive taste. He likes Ermenegildo Zegna and Burberry for his suits, Tom Ford for his sunglasses, Patek Philippe for his watches. He hates Derek’s sedan; he complains about the cheap leather and the way it squeaks whenever he moves.

He knows Stiles is an amazing artist, but he rarely paints anything original. He says he likes impressionists, but really his favourites are the surrealists. He likes Dali the best and sometimes doodles melting clocks when he thinks no one’s looking.

He knows Stiles doesn’t drink coffee but will take any type of tea. His favourite breakfast food is croissants; whenever Scott brings them any, he picks them apart until there’s crumbs all over the desk. He likes Chinese and Thai but not Indian, and he won’t touch a burger no matter where it’s from.

He knows Stiles is a menace at the best of times and an extremely talented con artist with enough skill to escape custody at the worst. His favourite game is to fuck with Derek, but it’s mostly harmless these days. He flirts with anything with a pulse. His first name is a car crash in action and sometimes Derek uses it just to make his squeak. Scott and Melissa are family to him, and he’s slowly letting Isaac and Allison and even Derek in too.

Individually, all the things Derek knows about Stiles make it seem like he has a good insight into his life.

Collectively, they mean jack shit. They’re just small pieces of a bigger picture, a bigger picture that Derek still can’t quite see.

Mostly because Stiles won’t let him see it.

There’s so much he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where Stiles hides all his stolen art, the paintings and sculptures and manuscripts. He doesn’t know who Stiles’ second partner is. He doesn’t know where Stiles came from in the first place.

He doesn’t know if Stilinski is even his real name.

-

There’s a Whistler painting in the conference room, all muted colours and delicate brushwork. It’s amazing, perfect, and Stiles wants to feel the ridges of the oil beneath his finger tips, touch the work of a master, just for a moment –

“Hands off,” Derek says, smacking his hand away.

“You’re no fun,” Stiles tells him. Derek frowns, but Stiles can tell it’s more for show than because he’s actually annoyed. “I just wanted to have a look.”

Derek’s face says that he knows exactly what Stiles’ game is. “You’ve had a look. It’s going back to the Met today, and I want it to make it there in one piece.”

Stiles restrains himself from rolling his eyes, because he’s the bigger man. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“Really?” Derek’s eyebrows are inching ever closer towards his hairline by the second. “You weren’t thinking about how to get it out of here without me noticing.”

Stiles forces his face into something that is meant to be innocent but is probably more cunning, if Derek’s expression is anything to go by. Either way, it makes Derek move the Whistler out of his reach.

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Stiles says, “promise.”

Derek just gives him an incredulous look, painting wrapped safe in his arms. And yeah, okay, so maybe Stiles was thinking about it. Because Scott could probably get hold of the same uniform as the Met’s security guards, so theoretically he could be the one to take charge of the Whistler when it was dropped off by whichever sucker was delivering it.

But Derek doesn’t need to know that.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a sourpuss?” he asks, as Derek smothers the poor painting in several layers of bubble wrap.

The look Derek gives him is incredibly unamused. “Don’t call me that,” he says as he walks out the door.

“It’s a term of endearment, Derek,” Stiles shouts after him, “you’ll grow to love it.”

Derek flips him the bird over his shoulder and Stiles' can't help his grin. It's going to be a good day.

-

Scott has no game. Absolutely none. Zip, nada, zilch. So it’s a miracle when he manages to get Kira’s phone number, and doesn’t even resort to using FBI resources to get it.

“I asked her out for dinner,” he says, with a stupid grin on his face.

Stiles can’t help grinning back. “Good for you,” he says.

Scott’s eye roll means he thinks Stiles is being sarcastic, but he actually means it. Scott is his brother, has had his back through everything, no matter what. So Stiles figures he deserves a little happiness, even if it’s with a scary insurance agent who would probably lock him up if she knew where he’d been.

The date apparently goes well though, because when Stiles come back from a stakeout at 1 a.m. the two of them are on the balcony, staring out at the city. There’s some blues playing and Scott’s waxing poetic about how much he loves New York; it makes Stiles gag a little, even if deep down he feels the exact same way. Kira, on the other hand, looks like she’s loving it.

“Hey,” he says over the music, “how was dinner?”

They both turn at the same time. Scott’s face breaks into a smile. Kira’s expression goes from friendly to confused to shocked to pissed off in the space of five seconds.

“You!” she shouts, setting her glass down on the table.

Stiles spares a moment to remember how she pepper-sprayed him the last time they saw each other, and makes sure to put the table in between them just in case.

“Hi, Kira," he says, "how are you?”

Rage flares in Kira’s eyes. “How am I? I nearly lost my job because of you.”

Stiles holds his hands up placatingly. “But you didn’t. Gotta think of the positives.”

Kira’s hand strays towards her purse, and Stiles skitters away. He’s already had enough pepper spray in his face to last a life time, thank you very much. But instead she just picks it up and storms out the door, Scott trailing after her.

In the silence, Stiles pours himself a glass of the wine Scott opened: 1990 Cabernet, excellent vintage; _good choice Scott_ , he thinks. He’s halfway through the glass when Scott comes back looking dejected.

“She left,” he says, mouth curled down.

Stiles claps him on the back. “Don’t worry man, she’ll be back.” He thinks about it for a moment, then grins. “If only because she wants to find out where the Warhol is.”

As he walks away, he can hear Scott muttering about asshole best friends under his breath.

-

They’re on stakeout and Stiles is Bored with a capital B. The perp is holed up in his house; he’s not going any time soon and Derek is stinking up the car with some ungodly sandwich combination. Whenever he complains, Derek just grins at him and takes another bite.

“I have a suggestion,” he says eventually, when he’s had enough of the silence.

Derek gives him an unimpressed look. “I don’t care,” he says, and goes back to his sandwich.

“Just listen to me for a sec.” To his credit, Derek actually does turn his head in Stiles’ direction. “Why don’t we get one of your lackeys to come down here and take over, and we can go get some real food somewhere that doesn’t smell so bad? What do you say? Call Isaac, he’s got nothing better to do.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re my lackey,” he says, going back to watching the house. “Besides, Lahey’s on a date.”

Stiles spares a moment to be offended by being called a lackey, very _very_ offended even though it’s entirely true. “Well, Allison then.”

“She’s on a date too.”

And really? “What, Thursday night is date night now?”

Derek rolls his eyes again. “It is when they’re on a date together.”

That’s news. But now that Stiles thinks about, he can see it. The way Isaac and Allison lean into each other, the silly grins that get exchanged over the table, the brush of hands when passing files. Huh. You learn something new every day.

But it doesn’t solve his problem of being stuck in the car with Derek and his awful sandwich.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Stiles tells him. “Between the smell and the seats –”

Derek makes a noise that could be a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You hate it, you hate me, you hate everything.” He pauses to point the sandwich at Stiles. “Now will you shut up and watch the house?”

It’s the most Derek’s said all evening, and Stiles wants to make a comment about word quotas. “You should get a Camaro,” he says instead, and squirms in the seat.

Because if Derek’s going to torture him with that smell, then Stiles is going to torture him with his body.

He can tell from the way Derek’s eyes go dark that he’s thinking of putting his hands on Stiles’ hips and holding him down, pressing his body into the squeaky leather until he stops moving, and yes, _yes_ , Stiles wants that. Derek just turns away though, as he always does, and Stiles feels himself deflating a little.

It’s been three years, three really good years, but Derek’s deliberate obliviousness is starting to wear him down a little.

There’s only so much sexual frustration a guy can take.

-

Derek is suspicious of everyone Stiles ever speaks to. It doesn’t matter whether they’re a criminal in custody or a witness at a crime scene, Derek investigates them all.

The one notable exception is Scott. Maybe it’s because his dad is the boss and Derek is always keen to keep on Rafael McCall’s good side. Maybe it’s because he brings the team food whenever they’re working a tough case: breakfast, lunch, dinner, donuts, coffee and on one memorable occasion a bottle of scotch. Maybe he just looks too cute to be guilty of anything.

Either way, he doesn’t suspect Scott of anything, despite the fact that Scott and Stiles are clearly good friends, despite the fact that they _live_ together.

In Scott’s opinion that makes Derek an idiot, but truthfully it just makes it easier for Scott to nose around the office. He takes things where he needs them, files and photos, slipped into bags when no one’s looking. He even stashes a few bugs around the place, just to be on the safe side.

He’s the one that finds the photo on Allison’s desk, tucked in a folder at the bottom of a huge stack. It’s grainy but it’s obvious who the person is: Lydia, dark eyed and defiantly smirking at the camera. His heart aches for a moment – she was his best friend too – before he slips it into his pocket.

He shows it to Stiles later over a bottle of wine and his mom’s homemade bolognaise.

“She looks happy,” Stiles says, and places it face down on the table.

Scott levels his most unimpressed look at him. “Yes, because that’s why I’m showing you.”

“I don’t know why you’re showing me,” Stiles says, because apparently working for the FBI is killing his brain cells. “She’s gone and she’s not coming back.”

“That’s not my point, Stiles.”

Stiles stands up sharply, chair screeching over the floor. “Then what is your point, Scott? Because all you’re doing is pissing me off.”

“Why are you still here Stiles?” Stiles opens his mouth, but Scott keeps going. “You hate being on a leash. You’re not sticking around because of me, so what the hell are you still doing here?”

Stiles looks away, guilty. Scott hates himself a little for putting that look there, but he knows he’s right and so does Stiles. There’s no good reason for him to stick around. He’s got enough money in the bank to disappear to wherever he wants, become whoever he wants.

“Look I get why you’ve stayed this long,” Scott says, because he does, and he gets it, Derek Hale does look good in a suit. “But this is still a prison – maybe worse than prison, because you’re actually letting yourself by tied down. By the FBI, of all people.”

Stiles throws himself down onto the couch, drops his head into his hands. “It’s not that easy,” he mumbles through his fingers.

Scott goes to him, puts an arm round his shoulders to feel the way Stiles is vibrating with tension. “Yes it is,” he says, “you know it is.”

Stiles head comes up sharply and he pulls away a little. “I’m not leaving,” he says defiantly. “Not until my sentence is up.”

“And when is that going to be, Stiles? Because this was meant to be three years. And now it’s four.” Scott can hear how sharp his words are, and he can see the way Stiles is shrinking in on himself. Because he’s right, they both know it, and it’s time someone just came out and said what they’re both been thinking. “They’re not ever going to take it off you because you’re too much of a liability. They’re going to keep you on a leash forever, until you forget how to be anything other than being the FBI’s pet criminal. And I can’t watch that happen, okay? I just can’t.”

He gets up then, before he says something else, something worse. When he gets to the door, he looks back. Stiles is still on the couch, hands shaking in his lap, eyes closed as he bows his head.

The look on his face is something like resignation.

Something like regret.

-

Stiles cuts his anklet on a Monday.

There’s a fake Degas in the conference room with his signature smack-dab in the middle, and Derek is shouting at Allison and Isaac to find him when Scott arrives with lunch. Derek rounds on him the moment he sees him, pins him to the wall with shaking fists.

“Where is he?” he snarls in Scott’s face.

Scott just shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t know, man. You’re the one who has him on that anklet.”

Derek can sense the truth in the statement. He let’s go of Scott’s shirt and steps back. The whole office is staring at him like a madman.

“He cut it off this morning,” he says, and is surprised at the way his voice shakes.

To his credit, Scott actually looks shocked, but Derek is on to him. He tells him as much. Scott just holds his hands up in defence.

“Look, I don’t know where he is,” he says, and he even has the gall to glare angrily at Derek. “And if you’re going to come at him like this, I’m not going to help you find him either.”

“I just need to find him, Scott,” he says, “he’s in a lot of trouble right now.”

Scott pulls a face. “He’s always in trouble,” he says, as if Derek doesn’t already know that. “But if he cut his tracker, it’s because he’s scared. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t have a good reason.”

The wind goes out of Derek’s sails. It makes sense. Even if Stiles is a criminal genius with the stickiest fingers Derek’s even seen, he does seem to genuinely love his job. He tries his hardest, pushes himself to his limits, goes above and beyond in ways that some of Derek’s highly trained agents don’t even do. His anger begins to ebb slightly.

“Do you have any idea where he would go?” he asks.

“Honestly? I would’ve thought he’d come to me.” And that doesn’t make much sense to Derek, because if Stiles is on the run why would he go to the person whose house he conned his way into? “But look, if you find him, go easy on him, okay? Whatever he did, he didn’t mean it.”

Derek wants to shake him, but in the end he lets Scott disappear back out the doors, taking the food with him. Allison comes up behind him, feet stealthy even in high heels.

“What do we do now?” she asks.

He can hear how weary she sounds, wonders if he sounds as bad. “I don’t know,” he says, running a hand over his face.

“We’ll find him,” she says, and puts a comforting hand on his back.

Derek believes her; of course they’ll find him, eventually. The only thing he’s worried about is what Stiles will have done by the time they do.

-

Stiles doesn’t mean to run. It’s just, it’s easy and he’s good at it.

When he was fifteen he ran away for the first time. His mother was long dead, his father rotting in jail somewhere. His foster family hated him, hated how much smarter than them he was. It was the only way out he could see, so one night he climbed out the window and vanished into the dark.

He hasn’t stopped running since.

-

When Derek comes home, Stiles is sitting at the dining table, head in his hands. He’s shaking beneath his thousand dollar suit, pale skin against dark fabric. He looks up as Derek enters and his pupils are blown wide.

"What are you doing here?” is Derek’s first question. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“No,” and Stiles shakes his head hard. “I just got so caught up in my head. And then the Degas was there and I wasn’t sure what you’d do. I didn’t mean to cut it, I didn’t really think about it, I just –”

Derek holds up a hand and finds he’s close to shaking himself. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You did think about. You always know what you’re doing, Stiles, everything about you is planned.”

Stiles at least has the decency to hang his head, something like shame flitting across his face. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?” Derek can feel his voice rising by the second. “This isn’t even the first time you’ve done this. Any time I turn my back, you’re off doing God knows what with God knows who.”

Stiles’ face slides from distress into rage. “Are you kidding me?” he shouts. “I’ve had your back since day one. But whenever something goes wrong, I’m always the first one you blame.”

Derek has to clench his hands into fists so he doesn’t lash out. “Because it always _is_ you, Stiles. You’re always the one doing something wrong.”

“No, you always _think_ I’m the one doing something wrong.” He looks so angry and resigned that Derek’s heart aches a little. “You don’t trust me.”

“You don’t trust _me_.”

Stiles freezes. “I do trust you,” he says, voice breaking over the words, “God, Derek, out of everyone in my life, Scott and Lydia and everybody else, you’re the _only_ person I do trust.”

Derek feels like the conversation’s taken a turn somewhere, and he can’t quite keep up. “What are you talking about?”

Stiles laughs, harsh in the stillness. “You’re – you’re incorruptible. You protect me even when you know the stupid shit I’ve been up to. You gave me this,” and he waves his hand wildly as if to signify everything, the whole world. “You saved me.”

He sounds so broken and desperate that Derek can’t help going to him. Stiles falls into his arms, clinging to him like a limpet. Derek presses his face into his unruly hair and breathes him in.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stiles promises, as if he can sense Derek’s own desperation.

“Don’t say that,” Derek tells him, “You can’t promise me that."

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “I’ve been in love with you for years,” he says, “It’s why I’m still here.”

Derek has to pull back. “But you and Lydia –”

Stiles shakes his head. “She was my best friend. She – I loved her, but not like that.” His smile is sad. “That’s why she left. Because she thought I did.”

It doesn’t sound right to his ears. “I saw it, Stiles; I saw the way you looked at her.”

Stiles’ laugh rumbles through him. “You dumb shit,” he says into Derek’s shoulder, “I’ve only ever had eyes for you.”

-

Stiles wakes up inches away from Derek’s face. They’re fully clothed, on top of the covers, and Stiles can’t help being a bit disappointed in himself for not even making it to first base last night. Then he looks at Derek, his face is smooth and unworried in sleep, and everything else disappears from his mind. He reaches up to trace the shape of his cheekbone with gentle fingers.

Not gentle enough though, because Derek’s eyes slide open.

“Hi,” Stiles croaks.

Derek blinks at him a few times, eyes sleepy but warm. His face is lit by bright sunlight and Stiles thinks, _now or never_. He leans in and kisses him.

Derek responds beautifully, taking control so fast Stiles’ head spins. He’s pushed down into the mattress as Derek rolls on top of him, hands grabbing at his clothes hurriedly. Stiles’ shirt comes off in a tangle and Derek throws it across the room to objections of _no, no, Derek, that’s Armani_. But Derek’s too focussed on the shape that’s crawling up Stiles’ side, dark against his pale skin.

“What is that?”

 _That_ is a tattoo, a long-legged elephant walking across his ribs. It’s familiar, a Dali painting, and Derek traces its shape with his fingers.

“You didn’t used to have this,” he says, and presses his mouth to the ink.

“I wanted –” and Stiles cuts off to make a high-pitched noise as Derek licks at the tattoo, “oh _fuck_ , never mind, doesn’t matter.”

Derek raises his head, and his grin is wolf-like. “I like it,” he mumbles into Stiles’ skin.

“I can tell,” Stiles says, and let’s his head fall back when Derek bites down.

The rest of their clothes get yanked off quickly, until Stiles is naked and Derek is only wearing socks. Stiles drinks in the sight of Derek with nothing on, all toned muscle that he immediately puts his hands all over.

“This is so much better than you in a suit,” he says as he runs his palms over the shape of Derek’s abs, along the flexing muscles in his back.

“You hate my suits," Derek says, because it's true, Stiles complains about them on a regular basis.

The grin he gets in response is sharp. “Not even close,” Stiles says, and his mouth takes a bruising path across the nearest available skin. “You’re like a wet dream. Agent Hale – ha! More like Agent Handsome.”

He feels more than sees Derek laugh, and then he’s thrusting his hips down into Stiles’ and they’re rutting against each other in the sunlight. Derek fits a hand between them and Stiles nearly loses it then and there, because he’s finally got Derek Hale’s hand on his dick.

It’s not long before Derek rasps out, “close,” against his cheek, and Stiles does lose it at that, shooting all over Derek’s hand and their chests.

He opens his eyes again just in time to see Derek come, his face flushed, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth hanging open. It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful, and Stiles has to lean up to bite at Derek’s lips until he’s done, until he sinks down onto the mattress, panting heavily. They lay in silence for a long time.

“Why did we wait so long to do that?” Stiles says eventually.

Derek presses a sweaty palm over his mouth. “Shut up and let me enjoy this,” he says.

For once Stiles complies. He snuggles into Derek’s side and falls asleep like that, face mashed into his collarbone. Derek manages to get them under the covers, grumbling at the wet patch that’s under his back. He spares a moment to think _thank god Laura’s not here_ , before his eyes get heavy and sleep drags him under.

-

There’s no Whistler today; instead it’s a fake Seurat. Pointillism at its best, the colours vivid, the brushwork impeccable, every dot where it should be. A lot of work has gone into this copy and it shows in its accuracy. Stiles runs a hand across the canvas and makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a moan.

“What was _that_?” Isaac asks.

Stiles winks at him. “A good forgery is like a good blowjob,” he says.

Derek glares at him across the table as Isaac turns away with a blush and Allison rolls her eyes, reaching out to pat him gently on the arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Scott coming through the doors with a stack of coffee cups and a huge paper bag, hopefully full of muffins.

Just another Monday in the White Collar Division.

**Author's Note:**

> So after this, Stiles tries to be a good boy, but then Chris Argent comes after Derek and it all goes to shit. Derek sends Allison to Europe to help Interpol catch Lydia and her team while Stiles and Scott put together a plan to get Argent to leave Derek alone, because Stiles is stupidly in love with him. And Kira helps, because her and Scott are together now, and she actually kinda likes working for the other side. (That conversation probably goes something like [this](http://neptunepirate.tumblr.com/post/74882120009).)


End file.
